Consolation
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Faced with spending Christmas Day alone watching Christmas repeats on telly, Greg Lestrade decides to check on Sherlock, because he's alone too, isn't he? Sherlockmas fic for archea2. Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John (ust), John/Mary Morstan
1. Part 1 - December

**Title**: Consolation

**Author:** Mildredandbobbin  
**Characters/Pairing**: Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John (ust), John/Mary Morstan  
**Category**: Slash  
**Rating**: R  
**Warnings**: soft core sex, ust, angst, language  
**Word count**: 18,493  
**Summary**: Faced with spending Christmas Day alone watching Christmas repeats on telly, Greg Lestrade decides to check on Sherlock, because he's alone too, isn't he?

Based on recipient's prompt: 2. Sherlock and Lestrade get closer after Sherlock's return, when Sherlock has to face living alone again. Bonding, gen or slash. I'd love it if Sherlock's later decision to move to Sussex coincided with Lestrade's retirement from the force.

**Author's Notes**: Thanks to my beta Tsylvestris! Written for Archea2 for Sherlockmas Dec 2012.

* * *

**Consolation**

**Part 1 - December**

Greg Lestrade had to push hard on the front door to 221B Baker Street. A week's worth of post was piled up on the other side. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that Mrs Hudson must be away but the fact that Sherlock himself hadn't been through the front door in that long was worrying. Which was why he was here anyway. He'd been trying to contact Sherlock for help on a case for the last few days but even a detailed message about the shrunken severed hand in the hotel swimming pool hadn't elicited a response. So here he was, idiot that he was, actually a bit concerned about the pompous git.

He'd been a bit concerned about Sherlock for a while, actually, but had done his best to bite his tongue. So what if John Watson wasn't around to look after Sherlock anymore; he was a grown man, he'd managed somehow while he'd been off pretending to be dead, and just because he was looking skinnier than ever and a bit...well..._empty_ didn't mean anything was wrong. But this week - first the unanswered calls and then, just now, he'd been sitting at home watching repeats of Christmas specials on telly, and thinking - thinking, hadn't he, that he'd have the kids tomorrow and he'd at least seen them this morning when he'd popped over to Katherine's with their presents, but what about those poor bastards spending the whole day entirely alone? And he'd thought of Sherlock. And, well, he'd _thought,_hadn't he? (Sherlock always told him not to try doing that).

Greg took the stairs up to the flat two at a time. He knocked, but when there was no response he fished out the second key he'd purloined off Sherlock (two can play at that game) and opened the door.

He almost gagged on the smell.

"Good God, what the fuck is that?" he gasped, covering his nose, depositing the bag he'd brought on the one small clean bit of surface and opening the kitchen window. It looked like an experiment was in progress on the table and the detritus of week old takeaway sat mouldering on the countertop. Greg had seen the homes of deceased loners who'd been eaten by their cats that were in better shape. The worry gnawed at him just a bit more. Bloody idiot - after all the business with his faked death, he'd better not have bloody topped himself.

"Christ, it's freezing in here. Sherlock!" he called. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, you here?" He poked his head into the living room, relief as much as irritation flooding him as he took in the sight of one lanky bastard half-hanging off an armchair, staring up into space. "For fuck's sake, would it have killed you to answer the bloody phone?"

"Oh, Lestrade, how good of you to invade my privacy. Happy holidays." Sherlock didn't even glance at him but kept staring at the ceiling. "Ex-wife wouldn't let you have the children, then, after you made sure you were rostered off for the day and all. How unfortunate."

"Happy fucking Christmas to you too, you wanker. I thought you'd-" he was going to say "overdosed," but it seemed tactless, "-blown yourself up or something."

"Never fear, I'm sure if I came to a sticky end my dear brother would be the first to let you know. He does so love being the bearer of happy tidings."

"Well, Ebenezer Scrooge," said Greg, running out of steam now that Sherlock was not only all right but in fine acerbic form, "I'm here now, so sit up, then, I brought us something to share. Bit sad to sit at home drinking by yourself at Christmas." He retrieved the bag he'd brought from the kitchen and held it aloft.

"I would have thought Christmas to be the one day of the year that it's _de rigueur_for the 'sad' to indulge in a bit of alcohol-induced escapism," muttered Sherlock, not moving a muscle.

"Yeah, well, are you going to have a drink with me and show off your brilliance with this severed hand case or are you going to be an arse?" Greg lifted out the bottle of quite good single malt scotch he'd been given in the Yard's Secret Santa, as well as two _clean_glasses.

Sherlock's eyes glittered and he did actually swing his legs around the chair. "Why? So you can feel good about yourself? Doing a good deed, spending time with the freak? Sherlock Holmes, you thought, there's someone sadder than I am, I'll go inflict my company on him. After all, it's _Christmas_."

He was obviously trying to drive Greg away, and for exactly that reason Greg was going to dig his heels in. Fuck him. If he didn't want people checking to be sure he was alive, he should answer his bloody phone. "Shut it, Sherlock. Now, are you going to sit there wallowing in some sort of pity party or are you going to sit the fuck up and drink some fifty year old scotch with me?"

Sherlock righted himself, long legs sliding gracefully to the ground, and pulled his dressing gown around him. Greg noticed bright red knitted bed socks on his feet. Present from Mrs Hudson?

"Why's it so bleeding cold in here anyway? Heating on the blink?"

"Broken." Sherlock waved his hand. "John used to fix it. Irrelevant."

"Well, freezing your balls off might be irrelevant to you but I'd rather not." He took in Sherlock's filthy dressing gown, his mop of snarled hair and - dear Lord - a three-day growth of stubble.

"Good God, you're a mess. No offence, but when did you last shower?"

"Not only do I have to endure your company, but now you're passing judgement on my hygiene. No one asked you to be here." Sherlock pulled his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms around himself, whether in defence or to keep warm, Greg wasn't sure.

He sighed. "Look, you go and have a shower, and I'll see what I can do with the heating, or at least get a fire going."

"Or you could just go home."

Greg grinned. "Nope, because that's exactly what you'd want and I'm not feeling very charitable suddenly. Shower; you reek."

Sherlock glared but did actually unfold himself from his seat and stomp off towards the bathroom. Greg looked around the room. It was the worst he'd ever seen it. Paper mountains towered in corners and on most surfaces. _Things_- random shit that wouldn't look out of place on some lifestyle programme about sad acts who kept random shit - filled all the space in between. There was literally a path from Sherlock's chair, to the sofa, to his violin at the window and then to the hall and kitchen. It was quite spectacular, actually, this manifestation of letting yourself go.

People had underestimated the positive effect John Watson had had on Sherlock. What had it been? Only two months back without him, and already Sherlock was on track to having his flat declared a hazardous site by the Health Department.

Greg had a look at the heating but, after poking it and kicking it a bit, gave it up as a bad joke and decided the fire was a better option. There was a small pile of firewood in the foyer by the stairs (thank you, Mrs Hudson) and he raked out the cinders, used what he hoped was just old newspaper and not some vital evidence, and got a nice little fire going. Then he found a trash bag under the sink, dumped all the perishable debris in it, and took it downstairs.

Feeling very self-righteous with thoughts of doing good deeds on Christmas, helping the less fortunate and what-not, he washed his hands, poured out two large nips of scotch and settled down to enjoy the fire before Sherlock came back and said something to spoil it.

Sherlock stalked out a few minutes later, shaven and fully dressed in a suit. His hair was still slightly damp.

He snatched up the scotch glass Greg held out to him and sat down in his armchair opposite. Sniffing the scotch suspiciously, he took a delicate sip. "Passable."

"You're welcome. So. No Christmas plans, then?"

Sherlock scowled. "Tell me about the case."

Greg did, providing as much detail as he could, enduring snapped questions and imprecations about his intelligence - and then watched as Sherlock wove his magic, mentally dancing through the data, making deductive leaps, pulling in information and tugging at threads until the answer was revealed. It was the first time since he'd arrived that he'd seen Sherlock's face at all animated.

"...so unless Mrs Harris owns a chihuahua, it has to be the son." As Sherlock finished, his gaze fell on Greg's face and suddenly seemed to focus, where before it had been off somewhere, sifting through information and strings that only he could see.

"Bloody genius!" said Greg, staring back. Sherlock's expression froze and he looked away sharply, into the fire, long fingers gripping the glass tightly.

"Not really, just observation. I keep telling you, you just need to pay attention. John was-" Silence descended. Greg cleared his throat and then had another sip of scotch. John. Greg couldn't blame the man. Greg had been rightly pissed at Sherlock too and they hadn't been - whatever Sherlock and John had been; close partners at least. And Sherlock had let John think he'd died, for fuck's sake. For three years. John had been a mess but then he'd sorted himself out, bought a practice, took up being a proper doctor again, ended up getting married last year.

Who could blame him for not wanting to get caught up with Sherlock again? His wife was expecting a baby. Hardly a fit life for a father, chasing after Sherlock. That was obviously what was bothering Sherlock.

Well, if Greg had learned anything from the interminable counselling sessions he'd gone to with Katherine, it was that it was better to talk about things. He doubted Sherlock had said word to anybody about this.

"John - you're not seeing him this Christmas, then?" he asked, deciding to take the bull by the horns.

"No. He's busy, with his _wife_." The disdain, dislike was palpable.

"Ah. Yeah, nice girl. What's her name? M-something - Melissa, Megan-"

"Mary." Tone flat, hard.

So Sherlock didn't like the wife. Still, it would be hard, accepting your ex had moved on and wasn't going to drop his new life just because you weren't dead after all. "He must have been pleased you're back, though," said Lestrade.

"If by 'pleased' you mean irate, then yes. It doesn't matter. It's better that he doesn't forgive me."

Oh. Bit unfair; after all, Sherlock had saved all their lives: his, John's, Mrs Hudson's - probably countless others, given Moriarty's crimes. "But you explained, yeah? About the snipers, the network?"

"John doesn't want to understand and it's better if he doesn't."

Lestrade didn't push the point. He poured them both another glass. "It's a load of bollocks, this 'staying friends,' anyway; one party only does it out of guilt and the other hopes to get back together. Maybe you can be friends later, I don't know. I've never managed it."

Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes drawn away from the fire. "I- No. We can't be friends. He has a new life. Normal and boring and safe."

Greg swirled his glass. It was easier to look at the amber liquid than Sherlock's face as he asked, "What about you? Did you meet anyone else, when you were, um, away?"

Sherlock looked at the fire again. "No. There was only ever John."

Oh, God. Greg knew what Sherlock had been doing when he was away: risking his life, doing bloody stupid things. Probably thought about coming back to John the whole time, and then he gets back and John's gone and got married. And now won't even talk to him. Fuck. That's a bit hard.

"You'll meet someone else. Just give it time." Greg grimaced into his glass. Poor bastard. Heartbroken. That explained a lot.

Sherlock swallowed and wouldn't look at him. "I won't and I don't want to. You don't understand. There'll never be another John."

Greg bit the inside of his mouth. God. Was this Sherlock's first break-up? He sounded like a teenager. "Sherlock, hate to tell you this, but what you're feeling, everyone feels. And eventually everyone moves on, and you'll meet someone else and you'll wonder what you saw in him in the first place."

Sherlock glared at his scotch. "Thank you. That makes it even more pathetic."

Greg fiddled with his glass. He'd never really seen Sherlock like this, open, talking about himself. He seemed oddly vulnerable and Greg felt a strong urge to help. "What you need is a rebound shag. You know, one night stand, fuck someone else. Help you move on."

Sherlock's lips quirked into a mocking smile. "Are you offering, Lestrade?" he asked sardonically.

Greg prided himself that he didn't spit out the sip of scotch he'd just taken. Instead he swallowed it down and took the time to compose himself. "Ah, no. Thanks all the same. I have enough of you belittling my intelligence without you rating my sexual performance as well."

Sherlock looked at him, assessingly. "You've thought about it, then."

Greg shook his head firmly. "No! I'm not - no."

Sherlock sniffed. "Huh."

Greg knew that tone; it meant Sherlock thought he knew something you didn't. "Oh, God," he said, resigning himself.

"Your pulse rate quickened and your pupils dilated when I made the suggestion."

Greg shrugged and took a sip of scotch. "Doesn't mean anything."

"You've never thought about it?" Sherlock frowned, obviously curious.

"Not deliberately, no," he said, not sure exactly why he hadn't just said a flat-out no.

Sherlock chuckled. Greg looked at him steadily, not about to let Sherlock rattle him - or let on that he had.

"For the record," said Sherlock with apparent nonchalance, "you wouldn't have to worry about my judging your performance. I've very little to compare it to."

"Except for the love of your life, apparently."

A look of understanding dawned on Sherlock's face and Greg wondered what he'd missed. "Oh. You think - John - No. We weren't - we weren't like that. We weren't a 'couple'." It sounded like he was quoting someone.

"Oh. So you two were never -"

"In a sexual, romantic relationship? No." Sherlock's face twisted a little into something Greg recognised as self-mockery. "John was too resolutely heterosexual for that."

"But you-?"

"In a heartbeat."

"Fuck. So, what are you saying? Never been with a bloke before?"

"No."

"Well, neither have I."

"You are considering it."

Greg felt his face heat. "Let's just say hypothetically." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He was winding Greg up, he just knew it. Fine. "So, what about birds, then? Before the missus there were three, and since then a grand total of two sexual encounters. So I'm pretty sure my experience is vanilla compared to yours."

"Well, unless you count seeing a dominatrix naked, I'd say, there's been...ooh...no women I've had sexual encounters with, as you put it."

Greg replayed that in his head to make sure he'd gotten it right. "Sherlock fucking Holmes, bloody hell - are telling me you're a fucking virgin?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. Why is that such a surprise? No one likes me; I can't stand anyone, either. How do you think I'd tolerate sex?"

"Does John know what he turned down?"

"I made it clear at the start of our friendship that it wasn't my area."

He ran his tongue over his teeth. Deflowering Sherlock Holmes. He had to admit it had appeal. "So, apart from the fact that you are actually just winding me up, does that mean I've joined an exclusive club of the two people Sherlock Holmes would deign to fuck?"

Sherlock's lip quirked into a half smile. "Apparently. _Hypothetically_."

"Shame I don't fancy you then, isn't it."

Sherlock snorted. "Lestrade, your tells are giving you away. You're hotter for me than you were for Constable Jones dressed as Santa's naughty elf at the Yard Christmas party."

"Jones' legs in that number are better than yours."

Sherlock studied him for a long moment, his gaze flickering down his body for a second before returning to his face, analysing, assessing. Very deliberately, Sherlock set his glass on the coffee table. He leaned forward, eyes not leaving Greg's face.

"One-time offer, Lestrade. Sex, now."

Greg felt his ears heat and licked his lips before draining his glass. "Good one, Sherlock," he said, managing a grin.

Sherlock frowned, then his expression cleared. "It's not a joke, Lestrade. Don't tell me you've never wanted to stop up my mouth with your cock, bend me over your desk and give it to me, have me kiss your arse?"

Greg stared at him. God, it was tempting. "You're serious?"

Sherlock stood up with feline grace and crossed the space between them, leaned both hands on the back of the chair beside Greg's head, insinuated a knee between his thighs, dipped his head, and very deliberately kissed him.

Greg responded before he had time to consider that this was a particularly bad idea and _what the bloody hell was he doing?_Soft, full lips, a teasing tongue and actual intimate, sexual touch for the first time in God knows how long had him finding purchase on Sherlock's shoulders and snogging back. It was a challenging kiss - too much teeth and tongue - and lacked finesse, but Sherlock's knee nudged at his groin and long fingers wound in his hair and Greg found himself leaning into Sherlock, sliding his own hand through thick, still-damp curls.

Sherlock pulled back, eyes narrowed questioningly.

"Yeah, all right," said Greg, breathless.

Sherlock half-laughed. "So that's all I had to do," he said. The words sounded bitter.

* * *

The way Lestrade had taken control - started the fire, cleaned up the kitchen - had been disconcertingly familiar, and how much it had hurt had set Sherlock back a pace.

Lestrade - someone Sherlock wouldn't see die by sniper bullet, not just so he could take John with him into exile - a colleague, a nearly-friend. Someone who knew too much about him but kept most of it to himself anyway. He knew he could trust Lestrade. He was easy to understand and easy to circumvent.

And maybe he had a point, that maybe this craving for John Watson could be solved with other human touch. Satisfy this unrequited urge somewhere else and maybe it would go - maybe it would leave Sherlock in peace.

He could trust Lestrade. He wasn't unappealing and he was tolerable in appearance and temperament. He cared. Sherlock knew that much. He would be safe with Lestrade.

It was also amusing, this verbal game of seduction. _Flirting? _Maybe, or provoking, probably. It was intriguing to see Lestrade respond, react, as if the concept was enticing. Dilated pupils, can't feel his pulse but a shift in his seat - Yes. Interested.

Now to prove the hypothesis.

In the firelight, Lestrade's short grey hair glinted gold, close enough in colour to John's that for a moment Sherlock could pretend this was another man, another _friend_. John's hair, John's lips, John's hands grasping at his shoulders, sliding into his hair, kissing him back, pulse racing under his fingertips.

Sherlock steadied himself and pulled back. No. It was not John. But?

Lestrade looked up at him. Licked his lips. Reduced yet unashamed. Trust?

And then agreement; want. So simple. So many opportunities ignored. Would John have accepted this so easily?

Sherlock took Lestrade's hand and pulled him from his seat. "Bedroom," he said shortly. He realised he didn't have any of the necessary paraphernalia for this act. "You have a condom in your wallet? Yes?"

Greg patted his pockets and pulled out his wallet, retrieving a foil-wrapped square. "Yeah, yes. Should be in-date."

"I have lubricant," said Sherlock and pushed open the door to his bedroom.

How? Passionate or clinical? How would he do it with John? Passionate, emotional, not giving him time to change his mind, to think, to reconsider-

Lestrade smiled at him. Fondly, ruefully? He gripped Sherlock's collar and pulled him down into a kiss.

"Stop thinking. It's just a shag, yeah?"

Ah. This. Deft hands pushing off his jacket, tugging his shirt from his trousers. Warm, capable hands on his bare waist. Touch making him shiver. He followed the kiss, followed suit, pulling away for a moment. Off with Greg's jumper, up and under his long-sleeved shirt. Lestrade's body was surprisingly fit, slightly padded but still firmly muscled. It was cold in the bedroom but this touching, this kissing, made it negligible.

Then Lestrade was steering him towards the bed, pushing him onto it, still kissing, following him there. Would John have done this? Taken charge, pushed him down and made love to him? Or would he have let Sherlock lead? Sherlock wanted John to want him, to want this, to take him.

Yes, this was better.

Lestrade's thigh was between his, hip rubbing against his groin. Pleasurable, arousing; Sherlock noted his own growing erection, Lestrade's answering one against his hip. He needed to see more, feel more skin, touch, taste. Data - all data.

He pushed up Lestrade's shirt, tugging and pulling until Lestrade sat up and tore it off over his head. Then Sherlock sat up under him, hands to his ribs, lips to sternum. Breathe in - scent: musky, mildly pleasant; taste: slightly salty; touch: the odd texture of smooth skin against his tongue, ribs, abdomen, soft, smooth, ah - nipples, erectile tissue, puckering at stimulation - positive effect on subject - no, not subject, Lestrade/John.

And then Lestrade pushed him back down, pinned his arms above his head and kissed him, hard and demanding. He gasped. John, wanting him, strong hands, holding him down, showing how much he wanted this. Warm golden skin, tanned around the arms and neck. Groin thrusting against his. Would John take him? Open him up and be inside him? Or would he press cock to cock, mouth to cock, take Sherlock's mouth? So many variables.

Lips on his throat, oh! Oh! That - and combined with pressure on his erection - Yes - Sherlock groaned. He clung to Lestrade, moved desperate fingers downwards, unbuttoned denim, followed the smooth line of hip bone to pelvis, feeling the firm evidence of arousal against his hands, hips rubbing into his hands now, smooth skin beside coarse hair, pushed away fabric further, free. Smooth buttocks, flexing-

"God, Sherlock." Against his ear, a lick against his throat. "What do you want to do?"

Thought? Can't think. Need not to think. "Anything. You decide. You can have me."

A low groan, a thrust of hips.

Sherlock's hands fell to his own trousers, unbuttoning, unzipping, down and off, kicking them away. And then Lestrade was on him, above him, smooth, hard flesh against his own, the sensation spiking his arousal, making him clutch John/Lestrade to him tighter. Lips, mouths; sloppy, heated kisses, hard breathing.

"Roll over then," murmured Lestrade and Sherlock complied, pillowing his face in his arms and lifting his hips. Yes. John would take him, he would be John's, have him inside, part of him for this moment, at least.

* * *

Greg had had anal sex before, during an adventurous period with his ex-wife; he knew the theory even though the actual attempt had been resoundingly awkward and abandoned halfway through. Hopefully it would be different with a male body, what with a prostate and all - that could feel pretty bloody nice as he'd discovered one late Saturday night many years ago, when he'd hooked up with that girl with purple hair and Docs - Becca. Somehow he and Katherine had never gotten around to that particular adventure.

Trying not to think too much about either previous failure or the fact that this was Sherlock's first time (although elements of this certainly helped sustain his hard-on), he picked up the lube. He paused; condom first? Until his divorce he hadn't used a condom for years, Katherine had been on the pill, and then with the two post-divorce shags, his partners had been happy to do the honours. Usually he'd see about it after foreplay, but how did it work with anal sex? In the end he settled for opening the packet before his hands got all slippery. He lubed up the fingers of his right hand. Rubbing soothing circles on the small of Sherlock's back with his left and murmuring praise and encouragement, he worked him open enough so his fingers could slide easily and Sherlock was alternately whimpering and demanding that he do more. He accidentally brushed the prostate and Sherlock's deep groan turned his knees to water. He found the spot again and repeated the action until Sherlock was cursing him in unflattering terms and telling him to get on with it before he came.

Fumbling a bit with the condom, he blew a puff of air on the circle of latex to make sure he had it the right way and then rolled it on carefully; suddenly aware that it was the only one they had and his ego wouldn't survive the ignominy of breaking it. Successfully sheathed, he gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling him up on his knees, and then very steadily pushed inside. Oh fucking bloody hell, that felt good: the stretch of tight muscles about him, warm heat, and a pale, slim body bucking under his own. He began to move, slowly, carefully. Like this, he could imagine he was with a woman, a woman with skinny hips and dark curls. Or he could remember it was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and he had his cock so far up his arse the man could feel it in his throat.

"All right?" he gasped.

"Yes." The word was bitten out. "Less talk, more - just _more_."

Greg grinned and picked up the tempo, angling his hips to try and hit _that_spot until he did and was rewarded with another deep groan. It felt so bloody good. Sherlock was tight and responsive and it had been too long between drinks. Pleasure pooled low in his belly, building in pressure. He was close, so close.

"Sherlock, fuck, you feel so good. Fuck - close, don't want to come yet-"

He was answered with a groan and hips rocking back to meet his. He slid his right hand from Sherlock's hip around to cup his testicles, eliciting a long, low keen. He brushed his hand over Sherlock's swollen cock, making him sob and then buck back with a cry, and Greg's climax overtook him as Sherlock's body clenched in pulses with his orgasm.

* * *

Sherlock collapsed on the bed with Lestrade falling heavily on him. They lay panting for a moment, and then the warm weight was gone from Sherlock's back and he felt oddly bereft until he reminded himself it was Lestrade, not John. Not John who had broken him apart and undone him with tender hands and gentle, amused words. No.

He felt a gentle hand rub his back.

"You all right, mate?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, I'm fine," he said, mustering all his reserve. He pulled himself up and slipped off the bed, grabbing up his dressing gown. He washed in the bathroom, then padded into the living room. Snatching up his phone, he noted the unanswered call. It was from John.

He played the message.

"Ah. Hi. Um. Sherlock, it's me, John. John Watson -" there was a pause. "Look, it's Christmas, and um, I realised this morning that you - it was good to know, this Christmas, that you're alive. Um, yeah. I was glad. Anyway - I just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas. I mean, you're probably out solving some case, won't even notice what day it is. But yeah. Happy Christmas...Bye."

He stared at the phone, realised his hands were shaking.

Lestrade came out of the bedroom, pulling on his jumper.

"All right?" he asked.

"Get out," said Sherlock.

For a moment Lestrade looked taken aback, his face flushed (embarrassed? annoyed? Sherlock didn't care), but then he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you great prat. It was good for me too. Right, then. Thanks for the help with the case. I'll see myself out."

"Do that."

He typed a text and hit send.

_Merry Christmas, John -SH_


	2. Part 2 - January

Part 2 - January

_John, case you would find interesting. 44 Harcourt Road, Euston. I'm here now. - SH _

_I've moved on, Sherlock. I really can't get involved in all that again. Sorry. Maybe catch up sometime for a drink when I'm not so busy. Cheers, John._

It _was_ the kind of case John found interesting: no bodies, no one else's life in danger, just a mystery to solve and a criminal to catch. The kind of case where John would look at him as if he was something wonderful and magnificent. The look that made Sherlock think for a wild, impulsive moment that perhaps-

Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket. But maybe it hadn't been the cases John had found interesting after all, it had been him, and John did not like him anymore and no case could tempt him.

His phone rang. Stupid hope flaring, he snatched it out of his pocket.

"Lestrade," he said, ignoring the clench of disappointment as the wrong voice rattled off details of a case. "Address?"

The man's tone was the same as always: harassed and profanity-laden, but something about it cast Sherlock back to a cold December evening when someone had bothered enough to share a drink, when warm hands had touched him and hazel eyes had been blown wide and wanting. He thrust the memory aside. "I'm on another case. I'll be there in an hour," he said and disconnected.

* * *

Greg went upstairs to his tiny flat, the best he could afford this close to NSY, rubbing his hands against the cold winter's night. It was mid-January and he'd just spent the better part of five hours stuck out near the Thames where a body had been dragged from the river, followed by the better part of three hours finishing up the paperwork after he'd given in and called Sherlock Bloody Holmes to help - not including the bloody hour and a half waiting for Sherlock to even show.

That had gone well, in a not-at-all way. At least the great prat hadn't been tactless enough to mention their Christmastime shag - that was the last thing Greg needed, but somehow he'd always trusted Sherlock to keep that to himself. No, instead he belittled Greg and his team to the point that two officers had to be forcibly restrained and Greg himself was two words from ordering him off the crime scene.

But he'd solved the case and then waltzed off without a backwards glance.

Greg let himself in and flipped the light switch and then nearly backed into the door. Sherlock was standing in his living room. "What the buggering fuck are you doing here?"

Sherlock's expression was closed. He looked around, fiddled a bit with the back of the sofa, then glanced at Greg. "I'd like to do that again."

"Do what again, rile my officers up and irritate the bollocks off me at a crime scene?" He didn't have time for this shit.

Sherlock looked at the floor. "No. Christmas. The sex, Lestrade. I'd like to do that again. With you."

Greg gaped. "You've got to be kidding me? After today's stunt - actually sure, get over here and suck my cock; you bloody owe me."

And then Sherlock's eyes flickered to his face, and Greg's mouth went dry at the look in them: dark and hungry. In two steps Sherlock was in front of him and sinking to his knees.

Greg ran his hands through his hair. "Sherlock," he said, trying to be calm, sensible, gentle. "I was bloody joking."

Hands stilled on Greg's belt. "Yes or no, Lestrade? I want to."

"Oh." Greg swallowed and closed his eyes. "Fuck. Fuck yes, all right."

And Sherlock did, pushed him back against the door, and not so much _sucked_ as explored his cock, licked, tasted, _savoured_ him. It was good, and it was even better because it was that smart mouth doing it, those dark curls Greg laced his hand through, and those odd eyes looking up at him obscenely and when Greg came Sherlock fucking swallowed and didn't that do his head in?

He tugged Sherlock up, kissed him hard and reached for his trousers, pulling them open, freeing the straining erection within. He tugged him off, quick and filthy and all over himself, all the while kissing those dirty lips, that shocking mouth.

Sherlock drew back after he'd come, one final graze of kiss red lips against his own, watching Greg carefully. "That was...good."

Greg huffed. "It was a bit, yeah. Thanks-" he waved his hand. "For that."

Sherlock hesitated as if he was about to say something, then bit his lip, nodded, and tidied himself away. "Good night," he said.

"Wait, Sherlock - you want to have a beer, grab something to eat? Something?"

Sherlock did that same thing with his lip. "I'm not hungry. Maybe next time."

Greg nodded and stepped aside to let him go, and it was only as the door shut in his face that he had the sense to notice. "Next time?"

* * *

_I uncovered an art theft ring today. You would have liked the gallery owner; appalling taste in jumpers. -SH_

_Mary hates my jumpers too. She has renovated my wardrobe, you'd be impressed. John_

Sherlock threw his phone across the room.

He masturbated later, angry, quick. He refused to think of John and instead remembered a firm, tanned hand dragging him to completion, thought of a genial handsome face and of hard, demanding kisses and a tongue inside his mouth.

* * *

_Next time_ was a week later and Sherlock had broken into his flat again, which would have been embarrassing except Greg knew it was a piece of shit building with poor security anyway. This time Greg wasn't quite as surprised and dragged him into the bedroom for a proper buggering.

Afterwards Greg kissed his shoulder and smoothed dark hair away from his ear, but then Sherlock abruptly got to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom to shower and dress.

Greg had pulled on some clothes by the time he emerged and had had time to think about what to do next. All the same, Sherlock looked so much like the twenty-nine year old kid Greg had met years ago, a poor mask of cocky arrogance hiding defensiveness and insecurity, that he was momentarily floored. "Takeaway then?" Greg asked when he'd recovered himself. "You said you would this time."

Sherlock frowned. Then his expression cleared. "I won't eat much. I'll annoy you."

"Sherlock, I'm fucking buying you dinner. Go on and sit on the bloody sofa while I order in."

A faint flush stained Sherlock's cheekbones. "It's not a _date_, Lestrade," he said acidly. "It's sex, nothing more."

He refused to let Sherlock get to him. "Yeah, and if I picked you up at a club, I'd have at least bought you a drink, so - manners, Sherlock, let me buy us dinner, yeah?"

"And if I don't?"

"Up to you. Depends on if you want a next time or not."

"Uncertain," said Sherlock with a frown, as if he was considering it seriously. "I'd - this is becoming something of a habit, one I had no intention of forming."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Might be nice not coming home and getting a heart attack once a week because some git's sitting in my living room."

A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips and he huffed a soft laugh. Greg smiled in return.

"Fine, dinner then," said Sherlock. "I'd hate to miss the opportunity to give you a cardiovascular workout."

"Git."

"Idiot."

And shaking his head, Greg brushed past him to order some Chinese. They watched telly in silence until it arrived, despite Greg's best efforts to have a conversation.

Then Sherlock sat hunched over his plate and poked at his food until finally he stood up. "Can I go now?"

And Greg sighed and waved his hand towards the door.

* * *

Sherlock watched the surgery from across the road, effectively concealed by some poorly designed streetscaping. At five-thirty John finally emerged, holding hands with a woman - _her_. John said something and she laughed and replied and John laughed and leaned over and kissed her, briefly but familiarly.

They got into her car; not John's, couldn't be John's choice.

John had been wearing a suit - grey, blue shirt. It suited him. Mary's taste. Not John's.

Mary leaving her fingerprints all over John. His John. No. Not his John. Not anymore.

Sherlock peeled off the tiled pillar he'd been leaning against and flagged down a cab.

He had every intention of following the yellow Prius, but instead he told the driver to take him to another address, another part of town. He wasn't even sure why. He had been careful not to think closely about that subject.

It was a satisfactory arrangement. Lestrade was lonely, Sherlock knew this was his motivation - agreeable, casual, safe sex with someone known yet not from his place of work, trustworthy to a degree and unlikely to demand that strings be attached. Lestrade's equal need for intimacy and companionship, as illustrated by his attempts to add social interactions to their sexual encounters, disconcerted Sherlock somewhat but it was not intolerable or entirely unavoidable.

Lestrade had provided food last time. Sherlock had accepted. Lestrade had likened it to buying a potential sexual partner a drink, which meant it was a reciprocal arrangement or could potentially lead to a power imbalance.

"Pull over," Sherlock ordered the cabbie.

* * *

Greg was half-expecting to see Sherlock the next Tuesday evening, so he wasn't as surprised when he opened the door and found the man sitting on his sofa.

"I brought food," Sherlock said, holding up two carrier bags. "Thai."

Greg blinked. "All right. Thanks. That's good of you."

"Let's eat first so I can leave after I fellate you."

"Sherlock-" Greg sighed, trying to rein in the part of his mind that had gone straight to that appealing image.

"No? You fellate me, then. It's your turn anyway."

Greg rubbed his eyes. "No, I mean, not that I'm disputing that, but - let's have dinner, then see what happens, yeah?"

Sherlock's expression was impassive and he sat down at the table as if he was there under sufferance, which he probably was.

Greg shook his head, fetched plates, cutlery, and two beers, and dished out the meal. He was starving and the Thai was good, so he ate quickly while once more Sherlock made a show of eating.

"No wonder you're so bloody skinny. You need to eat more than that."

Sherlock scowled and deliberately ate a large forkful. "Happy?" he asked putting his fork down.

He snorted. "My kids have better appetites than you."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Isn't it lucky you aren't my father," he commented.

"How old do you think I am?"

"Forty-nine, according to your driver's license. Don't worry, Detective Inspector, I'm not fucking you because of unresolved daddy issues."

Greg snorted. "Bloody hope not."

"No, I'm just using you for sex." A smirk played around the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

"Nice. Really nice, Sherlock. Good thing I know you secretly like me."

Sherlock sniffed. "'Tolerate' is the word I'd use."

"I tolerate you too, Sherlock." He grinned "God, you're a grumpy bastard to be around. Lucky you're such a decent shag."

"Hm, three encounters is hardly sufficient data to make that judgement."

Greg shrugged. "Do you see me complaining?"

Sherlock pushed back his chair. "Shall we continue gathering data on that point?"

Greg set down his knife and fork and drained his glass. "I'll be up for that."

* * *

Sherlock didn't understand this _need_. He thought once would be sufficient, would satisfy his curiosity, assuage this tedious desire that had been gnawing at him, but the heady mix of chemicals that touch and orgasm released in his brain had been more addictive than cocaine, and without negative consequences to temper it he had no external reason not to indulge it. And Lestrade was letting him, encouraging him, enjoying it too. Lestrade knew him, knew nearly everything that any outside observer would know, aside from John (but John was different, that's why John was special), and he tolerated him, accepted him and respected him. He didn't mock or ridicule; he was a practical and straightforward lover but gentle and accepting and that was enough and good and Sherlock could _pretend_.

Except his thoughts of John, in between these encounters, were confused now with the reality of a man with silver hair, still handsome, with straight white teeth and the weight of responsibility hanging about him like a mantel. Because it was Lestrade who was now stripping off his shirt and pushing him back on the bed. Lestrade, not John, whose deft fingers were unfastening his trousers and divesting him of his pants. And it was Lestrade's mouth and tongue and hands making Sherlock roll his eyes back into his head and grip the bedsheets with both hands and hang on. And when his mind drifted, consumed by pleasure and sensation, John's face became blurred with another's and John's voice took on a different tone and John's limbs were more golden and there was no scar where there should have been and _this wasn't John_.

But _oh_, Lestrade's mouth was warm and made his breath come in gasps, wound pleasure through him, tightening him like a spring, and it was better than his own hand had ever been and better than Lestrade's hand and Sherlock knew he would want this again. And what would it be like to sink inside Lestrade's body, if this was how a warm, wet mouth felt?

The pleasure, the pressure made him buck and pump his hips, _more_, _more_ and he was babbling _nonsense_ and his fingers found short silver hair and then his orgasm overtook him, bright and overwhelming, and left him trembling and gasping. Lestrade climbed up the bed to kneel beside him, tugging on his own cock, gripping Sherlock's thigh with his free hand and then coming in bursts over his stomach in some sort of animalistic display - and oddly Sherlock found it desirable, good.

He shut his eyes and felt Lestrade collapse on the bed beside him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Comfortable? Comforting?

"Don't call it a blowjob for nothing," said Lestrade, and Sherlock heard him cracking his jaw and flexing his shoulders and neck. "Was that all right? Yours was bloody nice."

Sherlock realised a response was expected. "It was extremely pleasurable," he said, not opening his eyes. "You can do that again sometime."

"Oh, cheers, mate," said Lestrade a touch sarcastically. He chuckled. "Glad it was acceptable."

Sherlock reached out and brushed his knuckles over Lestrade's side. It was easier than saying anything at this moment.

* * *

Greg got home early the next Tuesday. Sherlock was not there, which in a way was a relief; for a moment Greg had suspected the other man spent all day camped in his home waiting for him to return. Of course there was no guarantee the rangy prat would even show up. Greg changed out of his suit and ordered pizza.

The pizza arrived before Sherlock did, but Greg was just sitting down in front of the telly with it when there was a knock at the door.

Sherlock stood side-on to the door, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to come in.

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade," he said with a frown.

"In or out?"

Sherlock followed him inside.

"Pizza?" Greg sat back down on the couch while Sherlock hung up his coat.

Sherlock eyed him carefully, obviously decided it hadn't actually been a question, and picked up a slice, sitting down at the other end of the sofa.

"That Wilson case is coming to trial a week next Friday. Don't imagine you'll be called, but just a heads up," Greg said.

"Oh. Tedious."

"It's even more tedious when they get off, so if you do get on the stand, don't be an arrogant arse about it, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, shall we? Surely your forensics team has done an exemplary job."

Greg narrowed his gaze and pointed the pizza at him. "Careful. I might like your arse but I won't have you bashing my team in my house, great sex or not."

Sherlock looked amused. "Heaven forbid I let Anderson get in the way of your cock, Detective Inspector."

Greg winced. "Okay and that right there is an image I don't need if you want me to get it up tonight." And then he made the mistake of catching Sherlock's eye and they both sniggered.

Greg shook his head and took another bite of pizza and Sherlock began eating his slice. The silence was actually companionable.

"Tell me about when you were away," Greg said suddenly. "You must have some stories of being a bloody James Bond type - I saw some of the report, the bits that weren't censored."

Sherlock shook his head. "It mostly involved sitting around airports, if you go by percentage of time spent."

"Oh, my mistake, I was under the impression you were using your deductive reasoning to destroy a major international crime syndicate."

"You really want to know," said Sherlock incredulously. "Why?"

"Because, believe it or not, I actually find what you do pretty bloody interesting. There's a reason I let you hang around my crime scenes bothering me."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. "All right," he said, and started telling Greg about the operation in Madrid.

Greg packed up the empty pizza box and shoved it on the floor before lounging back on the couch to listen to the rest of Sherlock's story. He rattled off facts and deductions like he did at a crime scene, but this was all from memory. It was fascinating.

"And so the local police arrived, but luckily Annabella had disappeared with the gun and I was able to climb out the toilet window before any difficult questions were asked."

"You are fucking incredible, you mad bastard," Greg said with a grin. "How on earth you survived I have no idea."

Sherlock blinked and the way he looked at Greg - startled, with a faint blush on his cheekbones - made him pause. Greg cleared his throat and decided to aim for levity.

"I think you turned me on just a bit there," he said, rubbing his sock-clad foot against Sherlock's shin. "Want to do something about that?"

Sherlock's expression cleared and then his gaze darkened, drawing up over the entirety of Greg's body. "Any suggestions?" he drawled.

Greg coughed and shifted slightly. "I was thinking, since you've never done it before, maybe you ought to have a go, you know, doing me. Only if you're careful, though; I quite like my arsehole the way it is."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "I'm always _very_ careful, Lestrade," he purred, and didn't that sound go straight to Greg's groin.

* * *

This would be the last time. It had to be the last time, because what man would let Sherlock do this to him, reduce him to a whimpering, trembling, wanting, _begging mess_ and then look him in the eye again? No. Lestrade would avoid him after this, he'd have to; so now, tonight, Sherlock would do everything, have everything. He tasted and licked and explored, opened and soothed and then, when Lestrade was pleading and cursing, he pushed inside him. Sherlock had never felt anything like this incredible tight warmth; it was too much, it was unbearably good and he took, throwing himself over the edge, pressing his face to Lestrade's shoulder, holding him tight and letting the sensation and pleasure overwhelm him. And Lestrade was biting out obscenities and humping back against him and forward into his hand and then he was coming and the clenching of his muscles made everything go white.

Sherlock opened his eyes against Lestrade's shoulder. He drew sensitive lips across salty skin and then shifted off, collapsing beside him on the bed.

With a groan, Lestrade rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. He had a grin that Sherlock would categorise as positively goofy.

"That, was bloody good," he murmured, and stretched languidly and groaned.

Sherlock swallowed. Lestrade was still looking at him, with that same fond, gooey expression. He had no words so he moved closer and kissed him, softly, and then pulled back before he could embarrass himself further.

He sat up, looking away, and felt Lestrade's hand on his arm. "Sherlock, don't just bugger off. Enjoy the afterglow for once, would you?"

Sherlock paused. The urge to curl back into bed and share more soft kisses was treacherously tempting. To be looked at like that, as if he was beautiful and loved.

He didn't look at Lestrade. "I have to go."

He heard Lestrade sigh but there was no further argument and Sherlock discarded the condom, found his clothes and dressed without meeting the other man's gaze or saying another word.

"Good night, Lestrade," he said, when he was ready to leave, finally glancing in the other man's direction.

Lestrade hadn't moved from the bed. He looked debauched: naked, spent cock flopping against his thigh, traces of ejaculate on his stomach, one forearm cast over his eyes. He waved his other hand. "'Night, Sherlock. Lock the door on your way out."

* * *

Well. That had been. Fuck. Bloody illuminating, that's what that was. Greg found himself thinking again about blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, an impossible mouth, and the feel of long, large hands on his hips, his arse. He shifted onto his stomach, enjoying the friction on his sensitive cock. This refusal of Sherlock's to just enjoy the intimacy of the moment, though, was bloody frustrating. Greg was old enough and ugly enough not to feel rejected by Sherlock's postcoital awkwardness but it would be nice for a cuddle after, a bit of a snog. Was Sherlock that afraid he'd get all mushy on him? The flashes of vulnerability Greg has seen in Sherlock's expression indicated that perhaps it was the opposite, a protective measure to guard against rejection.

Greg sighed and stretched his stiff muscles. He hadn't had such good sex in who knew how long.

Sherlock...who'd have thought?

* * *

Sherlock toyed with his phone. Lestrade's reaction to his anecdote had been far too gratifying. To have his work appreciated again had affected him more than it should have. He didn't need approbation, he didn't need praise, he just needed to know he was right. Yet...it had been too long since someone had admired him. It had made him think of John, of course.

Sherlock flicked his thumb over the phone. Perhaps it was worth another try. Perhaps John had had time to digest the news that he was alive.

_John, would like to meet, explain. - SH_

* * *

Greg braced himself for the inevitable acerbic comment about his intelligence when Sherlock arrived at the crime scene: a posh townhouse where the owner had been kidnapped, according to her ex-husband.

"Lestrade," was all he said instead, and gave Greg a questioning look.

Greg was used to Sherlock reading him like a book so he just shrugged and stared back, but he couldn't help let slip a brief grin. "See what you can make of this one, all right?" Greg said, shaking his head to clear it - bloody hell, how old was he? Couldn't keep his mind out of his pants.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable but he hesitated a moment before stalking off to investigate the kidnapping.

Later, when Sherlock had pointed them towards the whereabouts of Mrs Montrey's remains, Greg pulled him to one side before he could nick off somewhere.

"Thanks for that," he said. "Appreciate it. Listen, once they find the Missus's body, I'm going to call it a day. Don't fancy meeting later for a pint or something, do you?"

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his gaze never leaving Greg's eyes. "What I'd like, Detective Inspector, is to have you on your knees - location is irrelevant but I imagine here would be inappropriate."

Greg prided himself that only his ears went pink. "I'll come round to yours then, once I'm done. Fancy doing you on that leather chair of yours."

It was Sherlock's turn to go a bit pink but he only faltered for a moment. "I'll be waiting," he said, and then turned on his heel with a swirl of bloody overcoat and strode off.

* * *

_John, are you going to make me do this by text? - SH_

_There were three snipers, for you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. I couldn't take you, tell you, without endangering them. - SH_

_You're a terrible liar. I couldn't have told you. You would have tried to stop me. -SH_

_You would have been in danger. - SH_

_I cared about you more than was prudent. Moriarty knew it, knew he could get to me through you. He'd done it once already. Semtex, remember? - SH_

_Caring was not an advantage. - SH_

_It's all done now. I destroyed his network. Every last piece. I came home. - SH_

* * *

Sherlock was waiting when Greg took the stairs two at a time up to the flat; sitting on his black leather armchair, naked but for the strategically placed violin that he was plucking tunelessly.

Greg's mouth went dry and he shoved off his overcoat and jacket and made short work of his tie.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock looking up.

"Sherlock." Greg's voice came out a bit rough.

Sherlock set the violin carefully on the coffee table and looked at him expectantly. Greg closed the distance between them, and in a reversal of that night at Christmas, he pushed his knee on the chair between Sherlock's parted thighs and leaned in for a kiss.

* * *

Afterwards, after Lestrade had knelt between his thighs and done delicious things to his cock, after Sherlock had pulled him up and kissed him and then jerked him off as he leaned over him, panting and red-faced, Lestrade had kissed him hard and straightened, tucking himself away, collecting his tie, his jacket, and Sherlock meant to let him go, just go.

"Are you hungry?" he heard himself ask, getting to his feet on wobbly legs, Lestrade's ejaculation fluid running down his stomach until he grabbed up the towel he'd been sitting on and wiped himself.

"Haven't eaten yet," Lestrade said. "Are you offering?"

Sherlock picked up his pants as he started to dress. "Yes. I'll get something. Stay here if you like."

Lestrade grinned and plopped on the sofa. He reached for the remote. "Don't mind if I do; feeling a bit shagged."

Sherlock checked his phone as he left the flat, taking the stairs two at a time, feeling strangely light and buoyant. Nothing.

While he waited for the curry he tapped out another text, meaning it, really meaning it.

_I'm glad you moved on. I'm glad you are happy. It's better this way. Fewer complications. - SH_

As the cab was turning the corner into Baker Street he received a reply, the first. It made his stomach lurch uncomfortably.

_Sherlock, stop this. I'll meet you. Okay? Just don't do this by text. John_

* * *

Sherlock didn't come by the next Tuesday, which was a bit disappointing for Greg, to be honest. He'd had a visit from his ex-wife that morning and he'd been hoping to see Sherlock that night to take his mind off it.

* * *

Sherlock fiddled with the salt and then got irritated with himself for being nervous. It was John. He had lived very successfully most of his life without a John Watson in it; he could do so again.

John was late. Sherlock checked his phone and then faffed a bit more with the salt packets.

When John did walk through the door of the cafe forty-five seconds later, slightly breathless, looking around - the picture of a man late for an appointment (date) with someone he was not (no longer) comfortable with - he spotted Sherlock and gave a slight, rueful wave. He pulled up the chair opposite.

"John," said Sherlock, taking in every detail of him; familiar lines and creases, soft grey-blonde hair, dark blue eyes all filed away in Sherlock's memory. Not changed noticeably since Sherlock had last seen him, late last year, when he'd been given a bloody nose and told to piss off in no uncertain terms. Strained expression, more now, not less - no John had been happy again then, resigned to his loss before Sherlock had returned.

"Sherlock, hello," said John. He looked down, up again, uncomfortable, tongue darting out (that tongue). "How have you been?"

Sherlock bit his own tongue. No, can't afford to be rude. "Fine," he said shortly. "And how is...Mary...and the pregnancy?"

"Oh," said John looking surprised, as if he hadn't expected Sherlock to know or even care. Well. Sherlock _could_ be polite when he wanted to, he just normally didn't. "Mary's great, and so far, so good with the pregnancy. Yeah, we're both pretty excited." He grinned, obviously happy, obviously pleased.

Sherlock studied the salt packet because he couldn't quite look at John at that moment. Well. That answered one question. It would hurt John too much to disrupt this tableau of domestic bliss. He would not appreciate the attempt. He would not respond favourably to attempts to do so.

"So, um, you said you wanted to explain," said John after a moment.

Sherlock frowned. "Would it make a difference? Do my motives matter? I left you, John, and let you think I was dead. I suppose, to some, that would be unforgivable. Is it?" He risked lifting his gaze.

John took a deep breath and bit his lip, then looked up at Sherlock. "I'm glad you're not dead, Sherlock, there's that. God, there's that. And you had your reasons, you always have your reasons, and they're sure to be reasonable and logical, but you left me here, alone, and you can't expect - you can't expect me to drop everything and come running back now."

"No. I don't," said Sherlock quietly. He looked out the window. "I had hoped...that perhaps you would still - I thought perhaps you would still consider me a friend."

He heard, rather than saw, John swallow. "_Sherlock_..." he said, his voice a bit wrong and Sherlock looked back sharply and met John's eyes. They were kind and sad. _Pity_- "I was angry and hurt, you've got to allow me that. God-"

Their waiter chose to appear at that moment with their menus. "Are you hungry?" John asked suddenly.

"Not particularly," said Sherlock.

"Good, then let's forget this and go to the pub. I need a drink to do this."

There was a pub around the corner and John got two pints and joined Sherlock at a corner table. Sherlock waited while John drank an entire pint.

"Okay," he said. "Here it is. If you hadn't died - left - I would have been happy following after you, worshipping the ground you walked on. I would have done anything you'd asked." He looked meaningfully at him and Sherlock felt as if he'd stepped out into nothing again. "God, and the things - if you'd had come back one day after it happened, one month, I would have thrown myself at your feet. But you didn't. You took three bloody years and I had to fix myself, and I did and I met Mary and I love her and without you there to fuck it up for me with your bloody jealousy and me letting you because secretly I liked that you were jealous - well, it worked didn't it? I gave her, it, us, a chance and it's good, it's really good. And she's having my baby and I love her, Sherlock. It's healthier than what you and I would have become; we're equals and it's mutual and she thinks of me and I think of her. It's what a relationship should be and - I owe you everything, for what you did for me, when I came back from Afghanistan, but we wouldn't have done well. Not at all. I would have started resenting you, you would have grown bored of me." John took a breath, shook his head.

Sherlock wrapped his right arm across his middle. Was this pain normal? He clutched at the second pint glass and took a long gulp. It was foul and wasn't enough to have any effect, so he drained the glass.

"So I can't go back to that, I can't be that person who drops everything to run after you. I won't be that person."

"You don't have to be," said Sherlock and hated that his voice was so pleading.

There was a long pause and Sherlock didn't look at John and he suspected that John didn't look at him. "I don't know if I can _not_ be," said John finally.

"I miss you," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "Sherlock. God, I miss you too. I've missed you for three fucking years." He pushed back his chair. "I need another drink. You?"

"Yes. Scotch. Neat."

"Right."

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes and listened to the noise of the pub and tried to quiet the turmoil in his mind. He heard the scrape of a chair and the clink of glasses as John returned. A deep puff of breath.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?" He cracked open his eyes.

"Saving my life. Throwing yourself off a building for me."

He laughed involuntarily. "I didn't mean to be gone for so long," he said. A pause, and then words came spilling out. "I wanted to contact you but - at first it was because I couldn't take the risk that Moriarty's men would kill Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and then - I realised that in some ways you were a vulnerability, a liability. It was safer. It's fine if you don't want to spend time with me anymore; it will be safer for both of us."

"And that's how you feel?"

"It's how I cope."

There was silence, then John reached across and took his hand. Sherlock met his eyes. He exhaled.

John squeezed his hand. "Of course I don't want to not be your friend, idiot," he said. "Drink up. I for one am going to get very drunk, and I prefer if you did it with me so I can tell you in a straight and happily married way how much I love you without it being awkward when I wake up." He grinned, not his best, sunshine grin, but a good one, his self-deprecating 'I've made a mediocre joke' grin, and Sherlock felt the sides of his mouth tug up in response.

* * *

Sherlock didn't show the next week either and Greg told himself he was as big an idiot as Sherlock always said he was for expecting this thing to continue on indefinitely. Six times, that was probably enough for Sherlock before he got bored.

After about an hour of sitting around, eating pizza and considering the prospect of another lonely wank, Greg got dressed in his work clothes again, cleaned his teeth, dashed on some aftershave and threw on his coat. Fuck it, this was supposed to be mutual bloody convenience.

He let himself into 221 and went upstairs to Sherlock's flat. He knocked on the door, thinking of something sexy and smart to say. The words died on his lips.

"John. Oh. Hello, mate," said Greg, brain trying to keep up while at the same time experiencing a definite sinking sensation in his midsection.

"Greg!" John grinned and clapped Greg on the shoulder. "How are you?"

"Yeah, good, yourself? The wife? Baby?"

"Lovely, yeah, both going well."

"Just visiting, then?"

"Yeah, Mary's got a prenatal exercise class on tonight; thought I'd catch up with Sherlock. He's just in the shower."

"Right. Well, I won't interrupt. Good to see you again."

"Yeah, same. I'll tell Sherlock you called; want to leave a message?"

"Nah, don't bother. I'll send him a text. Just that...project we were working on, it's finished up now. That's all."

And he left as quickly as he could, telling himself firmly that it was over and done with and he'd better get used to it.

Four days later he was called out to a crime scene and discovered it was a case a certain Consulting Detective was already working on.

John Watson was by his side.

If Greg felt resentful or hurt at all, he didn't acknowledge it, even to himself.

"John, mate. You following this mad bastard around again, are you?" he said jovially (God, please let it sound jovial).

Sherlock looked at him narrowly but brushed past, intent on berating the forensics team.

"Uh, yeah, um, I decided to get my head out of my arse and listen to his explanation."

"Good, good." He watched Sherlock whirl around as genius struck. "He did a good thing. Didn't seem so at the time, but it was good. Good to have him back too."

"Yeah. I've missed him. Missed this, too."

"Always said you're as mad as he is." Greg clapped him on the shoulder companionably and then strode off to talk to Donovan and avoid Sherlock as much as possible.

Later he tried not to notice when John asked Sherlock if he wanted dinner and the lanky bastard jumped at the offer.

* * *

John's eyes crinkled as he laughed and shook his head. "Amazing," he said, and Sherlock's heart sang. "I can't believe - God, I wish I'd been there. You are a fucking prick for not letting me be there to see that."

"You wouldn't have liked it. Too hot for jumpers."

"Still, amazing."

He smiled, feeling a bit shy, still not confident in this fragile new way of being with John - like when they had first met, so long ago, except then he had the benefit of not knowing how important it all was.

"Well," said John. "It's, God, nearly 11, I'd better get home. Thanks for today. It was fun."

Sherlock watched him pull on his coat. He paused. "This is good, Sherlock. I - let's do it again. Soon."

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded slightly. "If you like."

"I would. All right, the missus will kill me if I don't go. 'Night. Thanks again."

"Good night, John."

* * *

The next Tuesday, Greg got home and found, to a lingering sense of disappointment (irritating more than painful), that the flat was empty. He called himself some unsavoury names and changed into tracksuit bottoms and a jersey.

He was just sitting down to a frozen dinner and some bad telly when there was a knock on the door.

Frowning, Greg pulled it open and found Sherlock standing there.

"Can I come in?" he asked, looking off to the left a bit.

Greg shook his head, no. No. He'd be an idiot to say yes. He sighed. "Look, I always go off at Donovan for letting Anderson keep her on the side. You've got John back, let's just - it was fun, bloody fun, but it's over and done now. I'll give you a call about that Morgan case in the morning."

Sherlock leaned in, hand on the door frame. "Lestrade-" he said.

Greg sighed. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He shut the door and damped down the annoying feeling of regret.


	3. Part 3 - March

**March**

Greg was working late; paperwork. Everyone except the night-duty desk staff had gone home, and he'd just resigned himself to eating takeaway in the office again when there was a faint tap on his office doorframe. He looked up, expecting to see one of the night-shift crew with a question. Instead it was Sherlock, a white plastic carrier bag in one hand, the scent of fried rice and pork wafting through the air from it.

"You haven't eaten," he said, giving Greg a once-over.

"No. Was about to. Look, Sherlock -"

"It's food, Lestrade, between colleagues." Sherlock held forth the takeaway bag. Greg looked at him skeptically. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'm trying to win you back. Now will you eat?"

"It's - Sherlock - fine, I was going to order in anyway. Sit down, you're making the place look untidy."

Sherlock dragged over a chair and Lestrade cleared a space on his desk. Sherlock handed over a serving of Chinese takeaway and helped himself to the other.

"How's John?" Greg asked.

"Happy. Busy."

Greg dug into his meal with a plastic fork. "This is good. Not the place down the road, then?"

"No, Lucky Sun." Sherlock poked wooden chopsticks into the paper box.

"Oh, right."

Sherlock put down his chopsticks. "Lestrade...I would like to resume our arrangement."

"Nope," said Greg.

"Why not?"

"Because I won't be your priority and I don't want to be sitting around wondering if tonight John's stood you up or not."

Sherlock shrugged away this objection. "John has Mary, I'll have you, it will work perfectly."

"I'm not a substitute for John Watson's cock."

"You realise you're sounding missish?"

Greg talked around a mouthful of food. "Don't care. The answer's no."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'll let you do me over your desk."

"Sherlock! Drop it." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Just - tell me about that stuff in Norway. All right? Just...conversation."

Sherlock pouted, then with a put-upon sigh, started telling Greg about his time in Norway, leaving Greg shaking his head in amusement and disbelief at his genius and bravado and wondering if maybe he should have taken Sherlock up on his offer after all.

When Sherlock finished his tale, Greg stuck the empty containers back into the carrier bag and shoved it in his waste paper basket, following up with a dirty napkin. "Right, well, thanks for that, but I'm going to kick you out now. I've got to get this bollocks finished before tomorrow."

Sherlock gave a deep sigh. "This is going to be tedious, Lestrade."

"What is?"

"Convincing you to have sex with me again."

"Then don't bother," he said shortly.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up and his voice dropped an octave. "I know very well, Detective Inspector, that you'll be worth the effort." And he pushed to his feet and strode out, leaving Greg feeling just a bit disconcerted.

* * *

_John, I apologise for all the times I prevented you from having sexual intercourse. - SH_

_Okay. Thanks? Do I want to know why? John_

_Probably best not. -SH_

* * *

"What's all this, then?" Greg asked two days later at about 10pm as Sherlock appeared in front of his desk with another bag of takeaway.

"Mexican."

"No, I mean...never mind. Fine. Thanks. Sit."

Sherlock sat and started sharing out the food.

"Okay," Greg said, bemused, then picked up the plastic fork and speared the enchilada Sherlock had set in front of him. It was good. "I've been to Mexico, you know; holiday, once. Interesting place. Food was amazing."

"I've never been. I was in Chile for two weeks, though. Hunting Rodrigo Martinez."

Greg put his fork down. "That was you? They said some bloke named Sigerson turned him in."

"My pseudonym."

"'Course. What happened?"

* * *

"This urge is intolerable. I should never have started," muttered Sherlock, tapping his fingers on the armrest of the cab door.

"Okay, what?" said John.

"Sex. I should never have started having sex. I keep thinking about it, wanting it. I can't shut it down."

"Um..." said John carefully. "This isn't about us is it? Because I thought I'd made myself clear -"

Sherlock's heart pounded uncomfortably. "What? No, no, no, I'm perfectly happy being in a homoromantic platonic relationship with you, anything else would risk upsetting the status quo - which would be equally intolerable."

John blinked and went a bit pink, then drew himself together. "So...?"

Sherlock sighed, one part annoyed at having to explain, one part relieved to be able to confide in someone. "My sexual partner has ended our arrangement; misconstrued jealousy over you, I gather from his explanation."

John seemed to process this for a bit. He opened his mouth twice before thinking better of whatever he'd been about to say. In the end he decided on, "You told him we're not together?"

"He thinks you are my priority."

"Oh. But...Well...maybe you could try again. Wait, so...you never should have _started_ - are you saying you never had...before..._ever_?"

"Sex - no, of course not. Oh, don't look at me like that. Surely you knew."

John was very quiet. He went a bit pinker. Then he swallowed and shook his head. "You have a boyfriend." He said it like it was patently unbelievable.

"He's not my _boyfriend_." Sherlock pronounced the word distastefully; it sounded so adolescent.

"We were just using each other for sex."

John went quiet again. Then he exhaled. "Well, if he broke it off because he didn't want to share, it sounds like he wanted a bit more than that. Do you have, um, feelings for him?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the word. He only had _feelings_ for John, and maybe soft, cuddly ones for Mrs Hudson.

Then Lestrade's image appeared in his mind's eye, tolerant and careworn, a flash of white teeth in a symmetrical and pleasing face. It made him feel internally warm and just a bit randy. Perhaps there were a few feelings available for Lestrade after all. "I want to keep having sex with him. I find his company tolerable. I don't dislike him." He was also the only person apart from John that Sherlock wanted to have sex with, but he felt this was something he should keep to himself.

John looked amused. "Maybe you could try telling him. But not in those words, yeah?"

Sherlock eyed him narrowly. "Don't."

"What?"

"You think this is sweet."

"I do. I do think this is sweet and I'm glad you have someone - well, had someone. I hope you get him back."

Sherlock studied John's face a while, then huffed and looked away. "It will be more tolerable if I can."

* * *

Tuesday night, Greg didn't bother heading home early to an empty flat. It would just annoy him, tempt him to do something stupid like call Sherlock and take him up on his offer.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock appeared in his office doorway, but he was.

"Kebabs," Sherlock said, holding the bag aloft.

"What is this? Tastes of the world or something?"

"I'm trying to give you a varied diet. It's called caring. I've been told people do that, for friends and sexual partners."

Greg snorted. "Right. Sit down, then."

"You purposely didn't go home," said Sherlock, his tone accusatory.

Greg ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, well. I was trying to avoid doing something stupid like having takeaway with you." Sherlock's expression brightened and Greg groaned. "That is not encouragement," Greg said quickly. "The answer is still no."

"But you're considering it."

"No, I'm helping myself exercise some self-control."

Sherlock's gaze never wavered and he sprawled back in his chair, eyes locked onto Greg's.

Greg refused to acknowledge that Sherlock was practically fucking him with his eyes.

"No," he said again.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "And to think I even brought you falafel and baklava."

"Shame, because normally I do put out for falafel," said Greg, grinning.

* * *

_Any luck with that bloke of yours?_

_Stop being nosy. No. I've bought him takeway three times and he keeps refusing. - SH_

_He's not likely to take out a restraining order, is he?_

_Hardly. He finds it amusing to torture me. - SH_

_Ah, playing hard to get._

_No, he is just a sadist. In answer to your earlier question, I do have feelings: intense hatred. - SH_

* * *

Sherlock showed up at lunchtime with sandwiches.

"Sherlock!" Greg hissed, shutting his office door quickly.

"If people didn't think my being here with lunch was odd before, they will now," noted Sherlock.

Greg glared at him and opened the door again. "Fine. Since you're here, you can look at this case for me. Tell me what you think."

Sherlock handed him a sandwich. "You're using me for my mind. I fail to see how this is different from what we were doing before."

Greg tried very, very hard not to blush. "Yeah, well, you're using me for company, so we're even."

"You think I enjoy consuming sub-par food in a cramped cubicle with bad fluorescent lighting?"

"Actually, yeah, I think you do. It's better than eating alone and you get to look at me. And I..." he let his gaze flicker over Sherlock before smirking, "get to pick your brains about the criminal underbelly of this mighty city."

"I hate you a lot right now."

Greg grinned. "That's the spirit. Stages of grief and all that."

Sherlock held his gaze and very deliberately licked his lips before sensuously sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it with a tiny pop. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and then let a slow smile curl across his lips.

Greg did blush then and had to concentrate very hard on unwrapping his food.

* * *

Sherlock sat across from John and stared consideringly at his phone.

Spending time with Lestrade only made this longing worse. He wanted to touch the man, rumple up his rumpled shirt even more, strip him down, climb onto his lap, lick along his jaw, be naked and sweaty and hear him gasp and pant against his ear -

Lestrade had said he didn't want to be second best. He wanted Sherlock to prioritise him. Apparently showing up with takeaway didn't demonstrate this.

Sherlock wanted to work on one of the experiments on his to-do list but he was having trouble concentrating. Annoying.

Sherlock flicked through his messages again. Text? No, Lestrade prefered to call.

John was absurdly delighted with the notion of Sherlock _dating_. "So, um, you never said; what's your bloke like, anyway? Older, younger, tall, short...?"

Text anyway. Sherlock began composing. _Thinking about fellating you._ No, too direct. Delete.

"Older, taller than you, shorter than me. Handsome. Dishy."

"Oh, dishy."

_Fancy Chinese?_ No, easy to reject and then he wouldn't be able to bring takeaway tomorrow.

"Yes."

No good. Sherlock pushed his phone away in frustration. He looked up and saw John giving him a look.

"What?"

"Dishy."

"Shut up."

* * *

Two days later, Greg was about to stop work for the night when a familiar figure showed up at the door.

"I was just leaving." Greg shut down his computer and pushed his chair back.

"Fine, because I am no longer subsidising your food expenditure."

"All right. Given up, then?" Greg stood and grabbed his coat.

"Disappointed?"

"No, relieved, mostly." Nope, definitely not disappointed.

"Actually, I need some assistance," said Sherlock. Greg smirked. He rolled his eyes. "Not like that. On a case."

"Oh. What?"

"What do you know about Hugo Mackenzie?" said Sherlock.

Greg blinked. It was an actual case, not some filthy double entendre, then. "Right."

"Although...if you'd like, I can probably fit under the desk."

"I fucking knew it."

"No?"

Greg coughed and looked away. "No."

* * *

_It's Greg, isn't it?_

_Sherlock?_

_It is! Didn't know he was bi._

_Labels, John. - SH_

"Greg Lestrade," John said, smirking, as soon as Sherlock let him into the flat.

Sherlock glowered. "Well done, John, you've guessed. I fancy Lestrade. Happy now?"

"Not guessed, Sherlock, deduced," he said smugly. "And yes, I am. He's a good bloke. I was worried it might be some...I don't know...tosser who was just after you for your cheekbones and tight arse."

_Oh._ "You think I have a tight arse?"

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course you have a tight arse. It's been making me question my heterosexuality for years. That and those cheekbones."

Sherlock grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, you're attractive. Get over it." But John grinned back.

Sherlock had to look away. Picking at his cuff, he murmured, "Why did you have to get married, John?" Quietly. Possibly too quietly for John to have heard.

There was a pause and John _had_ heard. "Because I loved her and you were dead. And I still love her, too much to throw it away just because I might fancy you a little bit."

Sherlock didn't trust himself to reply.

"So I hope you do work things out with Greg, because I hate thinking of you being alone. I hate thinking that you might be wanting me when I can't give that to you."

He took a deep breath. Then he plastered a bright look on his face and turned back. "You know me, John, married to my work. I'm perfectly fine. Your friendship is all I ask."

John swallowed and nodded. "All right. You have that," he said.

* * *

Inevitably, Greg eventually had to call Sherlock on an actual professional matter and he arrived with John in tow. Greg raised his eyebrows and shook his head at Sherlock, who appeared unconcerned, as if this hadn't negated his whole campaign.

And perhaps it hadn't, because after Sherlock had figured out that the victim had been an air hostess and they should look for her lover, a City banker with a gambling addiction, and had generally solved the case, Greg overheard him talking to John.

"Want to grab a bite?" John asked.

Sherlock paused, then shook his head. "No. You go, I'll be here for a while longer."

Greg saw Sherlock tilt his head ever so slightly and John's eyes darted towards him. "Oh- _oh_- Right. Well. Good luck with that. See you Saturday?"

"Yes. I'll text you with the location."

And John nodded, waved, and left.

Greg folded his arms and watched Sherlock with raised eyebrows. Sherlock turned towards him, a smug, questioning look on his face.

"You're making a point."

"No, I'm merely prioritising one activity over another," replied Sherlock with what could pass for complete fucking innocence if Greg didn't know him all too well.

"One _hypothetical_ activity."

"I'm almost 89% certain of its eventuality."

"You told John.".

"He deduced, well, guessed is more accurate in his case."

Greg pursed his lips.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not used to being in the closet yet; not sure I'm ready to come out of it."

Sherlock smirked. "Is that your way of saying you're still gay for me?"

Greg grinned and looked away. "I won't be done here for a while."

"I'll wait. Or meet you at your flat."

Greg shrugged. "You can stay if you keep your mouth shut."

Sherlock looked wounded. "I'll wait at your flat. Shall I order something in?"

Greg gave him his best resigned expression. "Yes, fine."

Sherlock looked delighted, damn him. "Don't be too long," he said and walked off, coat billowing out behind him.

Greg was tempted to take his time, just to make the bastard suffer a bit before he gave in, but soon there wasn't anything he could do until the victim's boyfriend was apprehended so he finished typing up his notes and went home.

Sherlock was lying on his sofa, coat and shoes abandoned, watching telly, when Greg walked in.

"Making yourself at home, I see," he said.

Sherlock sat up and leaned over the back of the sofa. "You took your time."

"I told you I'd be a while."

Sherlock vaulted over the back of the sofa and stalked towards him. Greg deliberately delayed, hanging up his coat, emptying his pockets, kicking off his shoes, before turning back.

Sherlock stood barely two feet away, hands tucked in his trouser pockets. "The food arrived twenty minutes ago. It's in the oven, keeping warm."

"Cheers for that," said Greg.

Neither of them moved.

Sherlock exhaled. "Would it help if I told you I have been thinking about you constantly? It's very annoying."

Greg gave a surprised laugh, which died in his throat as Sherlock stalked forward. Intense blue eyes, pupils wide and dark, locked on his. He found himself focusing on Sherlock's lips instead; God, that mouth...

"I want to kiss you." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble.

Greg swallowed. "Not..." He ran his hand through his hair. "Sherlock," he sighed, out of arguments, his mouth dry. "We should eat." He glanced towards the kitchen but didn't get any further than that.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Should I call you 'Greg'? John says it's peculiar that we are sexually involved but I still call you Lestrade."

This left-field question threw Greg out of the moment and he regrouped. "One, we are not sexually involved, not anymore, and two, I don't know, I'm used to you calling me Lestrade. You can try, if you want."

"Greg. _Greg_," said Sherlock, trying it out, then stepped forward, not quite touching, and leaned in close. Greg closed his eyes as breath puffed against his cheek, and then lips grazed the edge of his ear. "_Greg_" Sherlock said. The word, rolled as it was in deep baritone, made him shiver. Sherlock drew back, gaze flickering over Greg's. He parted his lips.

The thinly stretched line of Greg's self-control snapped. He gripped Sherlock's collar and hauled him forward, crushing his mouth to stupid, arrogant, perfect lips, gripping bony hips and pulling close. The sound that escaped Sherlock's throat ran straight to Greg's groin.

They tugged and pulled at each other's clothes, jackets shrugged off, shirt buttons lost, trousers undone and stepped out of, and somehow they made it into the bedroom.

He pushed Sherlock onto the bed and crawled after him, over him, crotch against crotch, both tugging at each other's pants. They kissed feverishly, grinding skin against skin until Greg managed to break free long enough to fetch the lube and then Sherlock's palm closed over them both, slick and warm.

He held himself above Sherlock and thrust into his fist, against the other man's cock, taking messy, awkward kisses, dragging his lips across sharp cheekbones and a smooth jaw.

Sherlock's eyes were dark and glazed as they locked onto Greg's, his cheeks flushed and his lips wet and kiss-red. The fingers of his free hand dug into Greg's shoulder and his breath came in raw, panted gasps.

"Greg" he breathed.

Greg bit back a groan.

"_Greg_."

"You - God," Greg managed, hips snapping forward, chasing a delicious friction and just _right - there_. "Oh, fuck...Sherlock-"

Sherlock was thrusting his hips too now, both of them rocking together into his hand, rubbing against each other. "_Greg_-"

"Close, God, Sherlock-"

Sherlock made an unintelligible sound. "_Greg_-" And Greg bent down and took a kiss before pulling up and meeting his eyes, so dark, so wide, looking through him, into him.

"Beautiful, God, you're beautiful," he breathed.

And Sherlock's mouth fell open in a gasp and he was shuddering into his climax and Greg bit his lip and thrust once, twice more - held - and _there_ - _God yes_-

He held steady for a moment, muscles locked above Sherlock, looking down into wide eyes looking back at him. And then he moved again, bent down and tasted reddened lips and kissed flushed cheeks and brushed a hand against dark curls as he buried his face into a long, smooth throat and collapsed onto his side, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's chest.

* * *

_Greg._

The world returned.

Sherlock wiped his hand on the sheet and then tentatively ran it over Greg's ribs, waist, hip; the other man shivered and hummed his approval. He wanted to kiss again but Lestrade, no, _Greg's_ face was buried against his neck and he couldn't really turn without dislodging him, so he lay still, letting his heart rate return to normal, letting the chemicals flooding his bloodstream diffuse through his central nervous system.

After a long moment, Greg lifted his face and rolled onto his back.

They lay there, not moving.

Greg cleared his throat. "All right," he said. "We can try doing this again."

He brushed his knuckles against Greg's ribs. He wanted to go, leave now and escape. Emotion, stupid, the things he'd felt and Greg must know. Must- He turned his face towards Greg and found him still looking away, staring off towards the ceiling. It made his heart pound in some strange way.

Greg exhaled shakily. "Tuesdays?" he said.

"Yes."

"Why Tuesdays?"

"It's the day you are most likely to be available. I checked."

"Oh. Right. Okay. Tuesdays." Greg swallowed. "If you can't make it - for whatever reason, don't care - you text, all right? I won't be sat around waiting for you, understand?"

Sherlock thought of a thousand reasons why he might be unable to meet this requirement but didn't voice any of them. "Yes."

"And same goes for me, too."

"Yes."

"Okay." Greg nodded. He stretched and Sherlock admired the way his muscles flexed. He wanted to lick his chest, just a bit. Greg seemed tense, still concerned. That wasn't good.

"This bothers you," he said. He wanted Greg to be agreeable, convinced, not uncertain.

Greg's mouth twitched into a crooked smile. "Of course it bloody bothers me. I shouldn't want this half as much as I do." Suddenly his expression softened and Sherlock felt the tightness in his chest ease. "Don't look so worried; I said yes, didn't I?"

Sherlock looked away. "We should eat," he said and escaped from the bed.

* * *

**April**

Sherlock collapsed on the mattress, completely spent. Greg followed after, wrapping a heavy arm across his chest and smooshing his mouth into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shut his eyes, sleep tugging temptingly at his consciousness.

"I should go," he murmured. The bed was too comfortable, Greg too warm. His skin seemed to melt into Sherlock's.

"Don't be...idiot...sleep here," came the reply, a low rumble by Sherlock's ear.

"Should go." He couldn't open his eyes.

"Shut...it...sleep."

Sherlock did.

* * *

**May**

_Chinese or Tibetan? Will be there in 30 minutes. - SH_

Greg changed into his tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and then collapsed on the couch with his phone. _Sorry, exhausted. Not much fun tonight. Think I'll have to give it a miss this week. - GL_

He dropped the phone onto the floor and closed his eyes, just for a minute. A loud knock woke him with a start. He staggered to the door, yanking it open after fumbling at the lock.

"What - oh. Didn't you get my text?"

Sherlock pushed a takeaway container into his hands. "I came anyway."

"Sherlock, thanks for dinner, but I really can't do anything tonight."

Sherlock avoided his eyes, looking off over his shoulder. "I wanted to see you anyway. We can just sleep."

Greg looked down at the stupid takeaway container and then back up to Sherlock's face. His lips were pressed together and there was a crease on his forehead. "All right. If you like."

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards his and his features relaxed, breaking into a shy sort of smile.

"Good. Yes," he said.

And although it felt a bit odd at first, climbing into bed with Sherlock, bidding each other goodnight and switching off the light, when Greg turned and reached for him in the dark, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him, it felt as if he was meant to be there.

* * *

**June**

Greg woke to the sound of the flat door creaking open. He slipped out of bed and crept into the living room on bare feet.

A tall figure loomed in the semi-darkness. "It's me."

Greg let out the breath he'd been holding. "Fuck, Sherlock, I nearly had a bloody heart attack."

Sherlock was silent.

"It's Thursday," said Greg.

"I know."

There was something about his tone that made Greg stop. "You want to come to bed?"

"I would like that."

And he followed when Greg turned and went back into the bedroom.

* * *

**July**

_Nothing on telly. Thinking about your cock. Come over? - GL_

_Experiment. Critical stage. Come here. - SH_

_And watch boring telly there? - GL_

_There will be a fifteen minute window at 9.45 in which my cock will be at your service. - SH_

_Be right over. - GL_

* * *

**August**

"It makes sense," Sherlock whined. "My flat is much more convenient, and it's cooler than this oven."

Greg lay on his stomach, naked, a pedestal fan set up by the bed blowing directly onto him, cooling the sweat on his back. "No."

Sherlock, equally naked, rested his cheek on the small of Greg's back and ran a finger down his arse crack. They were already shagged out, so it felt more like curiosity than foreplay.

"'s tickles," complained Greg.

"You're ashamed of us. I never pegged you for a homophobe, Lestrade, but I should have known."

"How can I be a homophobe and let you stick your tongue in my arse every other week?"

"It explains a lot about our relationship."

"Whatever happened to just sex?" Greg grumbled. He felt Sherlock still and suddenly the hot weight of his body was gone. Greg turned over quickly. "Oh, don't - I - look, I know we don't talk about it, but I - this is something, yeah? More than sex."

Sherlock was lying on his side of the bed, arm across his eyes. "It doesn't matter. It seemed a practical idea. We spend most nights together anyway; why pay double rent? I need a flatmate."

Greg smoothed sweaty curls away from Sherlock's damp brow. "And normally I'd say yeah, but, look, it's different, it's difficult, you're the genius, you must know that.

"Convention, societal norms, all tedious. I thought you had more courage than this, Lestrade." And there was the 'Lestrade' again. Greg obviously was in the doghouse.

"Fine. I'm a coward. I'm not hiding the fact that we sleep together but I'm not going to tell anyone who doesn't need to know. It's hard enough keeping it to ourselves at the moment but if I move in with you it will be impossible."

"Again, you're ashamed."

"I'm - I'm not ashamed, but it's a bit embarrassing, yeah? I'm fucking ten years older than you and I'm panting after you, shagging you every chance - some sad old pervert gagging for it."

Sherlock chuckled. "You don't want people to find out about your toy boy, Detective Inspector?"

Greg sighed. "No. But that's - that's not why. Look, firstly, Katherine is a vindictive fucking bitch and if she finds out, she'll use it against me. Secondly, it's not so much my career because God knows that died in the arse a long time ago, but did it ever occur to you how difficult it would be for me to be calling you in as a consultant if you're known to be my partner? Bit of a conflict of interest. The press would have a field day. I can see it now: 'Detective Inspector Lestrade calls in gay lover for advice on police matters' - calls for an inquiry. For fuck's sake."

Sherlock grunted.

"So yeah, if you don't mind getting cut off from any police work related to me, then fine, let's make it official; we'll go get a civil union if that's what you want and Katherine can do her worst. I just - I thought if it came down to it, you'd choose the work."

Sherlock shifted his arm and rolled over to bury his face in Greg's neck. "Fine," he murmured.

"You have a point."

Greg stroked his hair, his shoulders, his back. "I'm not about to have to give this up because some jumped-up pen-pusher decides it's a conflict of interest."

Sherlock lifted his head suddenly and he looked at Greg fiercely for a moment before kissing him hard.

* * *

**September**

Greg climbed the stairs to 221B and knocked. It was a Friday but it had been a bloody long one and now all he wanted was to curl up in bed with Sherlock and maybe get a nice, lazy blowjob for his trouble.

He was surprised to have the door opened for him just as he was fiddling with his keys.

"Oh. John," he said and probably should have tried harder to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Greg, hello."

"Sorry, didn't know Sherlock was busy. I'll just say hello and leave you to it." Greg ignored how awkward this had to be.

John grinned. "Don't be stupid. I'm about to go anyway. Don't mind me."

Greg coughed. "You sure Sherlock wouldn't prefer you stay?"

John blinked and his smile became a bit tight. "Pretty sure the last time I checked you were the one he was shagging, not me."

"Sorry, I'm tired. No, I know. I just - he prefers your company..."

John's mouth was a tight line. "Did the idiot tell you that? Because he just ordered me out when he heard you on the stairs."

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh.' Now get inside so I can get out of here before he starts taking off your pants."

* * *

**October**

Greg moved above him, in him, slow, deep strokes, taking kisses in between thrusts. Aesthetically pleasing: eyes fixed on Sherlock's, cheeks flushed, hair damp.

"God, Sherlock, you're perfect, so bloody perfect. Could fuck you all night." Words, panted out; Sherlock clung to them as pleasure coiled through him, building up, chemicals, dopamine, adrenaline, and pure want and need. He rested his hand against Greg's throat, felt his pulse, rapid. Felt each breath, swallow. A counterpoint to each sharp stab of pleasure. Close, too close -

"_Greg-_"

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, fucking - Come for me -Come with me-"

After, after, after, when the brilliant glow behind his eyes had finally started to fade, Sherlock looked up into Greg Lestrade's face and saw something akin to wonder.

"Beautiful," Greg said. "You're so bloody beautiful."

And Sherlock traced his lips, his jaw with his fingertips and couldn't stop looking at his face.  
**December**

"John, Mary," Greg said, shaking John's hand and leaning forward to give Mary a kiss on the cheek before pulling up a seat next to the small blonde woman. Sherlock slid into his chair with barely a nod towards either of them.

"Well," said John, after they'd gotten themselves settled with drinks and menus. "To Christmas," and he held up a glass.

"Christmas," said Greg and Mary. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, then rolled his eyes at John's look and raised his glass as well.

As a fellow parent, Greg had plenty in common with John and Mary and for a while the conversation centred on little Charlotte, who was at home with Mary's mother for the night. Greg wasn't sure Sherlock appreciated the effort John and Mary had made to have this night out. After a while, though, John drew the conversation towards Sherlock's recent cases and some of his past adventures. Mary listened eagerly and Greg had his own share of anecdotes to contribute.

Later, during dessert, when John and Sherlock were enjoying the back and forth of conversation with each other, Mary leaned towards Greg. "Does it bother you? The two of them being so close?"

Greg shook his head. "No; can't compete with John, but what we have is different."

Mary smiled. "Hm, I know what you mean." She gave Greg a wry look. "I'm not stupid. It was a bit touch and go there for a while when Sherlock came back. John was... confused is probably the nicest way of putting it. But then Sherlock started seeing you and it made him feel better, actually."

"Oh." Greg shot their two partners a look and realised they'd stopped talking. Sherlock was watching him, eyes hooded. John was looking at them both curiously. A large hand slid onto his knee and squeezed. Greg shook his head. "I think they've realised we're talking about them," he said to Mary _sotto voce_.

Mary laughed and then raised her glass. "To our loved ones. All of them."

"I'll drink to that," said Greg and drained his glass in one go. Sherlock leaned closer and murmured low and intoxicating in his ear: "Make our excuses. I need you, now."

Greg blinked at him, startled, and Sherlock met his gaze steadily with a weighted look. Greg threw down his napkin and pulled some notes out of his wallet. "Well, Mary, John, lovely to catch up with you, have to do this a bit more often. If you'll excuse us, apparently Sherlock suddenly needs to give me a good consulting."

Mary giggled and John smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Tasteless, Lestrade," he muttered and swept out. Greg grinned and followed.

* * *

It was easier to show. Easier to show Greg than explain these nebulous, confusing, exhausting _emotions_. Easier to hold him down and show with his mouth and hands how possessive he felt, how needy, how _much_ he wanted. Easier to sink into his body and bury himself there than try to produce the words necessary to _describe_. Because Lestrade didn't understand, he didn't know, he didn't, and he needed to be shown that it was him now, not John, not anymore, not John in his veins and his heart, hammering too loudly, throbbing in his pulse-

"_Mine_," he growled against Greg's ear. "_Mine, mine, mine_"

And he felt Greg's fingers twist in his hair, too tightly and his back arch and wrench something raw and gasped from his lips before words came panted against his ear. "Goddamit, Sherlock, God, yes, yes, I'm yours, God help me."

And Sherlock shuddered against him.

* * *

**Ten years later - December **

It was cold and Greg had his hands tucked under his armpits for warmth. Sherlock stood in front of him, pacing.

"You told them no?"

Greg couldn't meet his eyes. "It wasn't actually a request."

"_Sussex._"

"Yeah." It was humiliating, an insult, some jumped-up little snot taking his place and him being put out to pasture, too young to retire but too old for the Met. And now he'd be at least an hour and a half's drive from London and what did that mean for him and Sherlock? At least his kids were all off at Uni now and he didn't have to worry about how that was going to work out.

Sherlock exhaled, his breath white in the cold air. "But-"

"I know." Greg cut him off, couldn't let him say it; he'd already gone through all the reasons why this transfer was the bloody bollocks and he couldn't bear to hear it from Sherlock. But he was too old to quit in protest, with four years yet until retirement.

"This is intolerable."

His chest ached. "I know." _I know, I know, I know,_ he wanted to say._ And you'll be here because you love London and John is here, and we'll say it will work but it will be too far and you won't bother and you'll stop coming and I'll stop going and this mad, brilliant thing I have with you will end and that will be utter shit and I hate that that's what's going to happen._

Sherlock walked off to look at the corpse some more, shoulders heavy, tense. Greg swore under his breath.

Later, back at Greg's flat, Sherlock shouted a lot, casting aspersions on Greg's superior officers, the police force in general, and Greg himself, which led to Greg shouting as well, which led to hurt and angry feelings, which led to hurt and angry sex.

After, in bed, Sherlock's ear pressed to his heart, holding on more tightly than usual, the words came tumbling out before Greg could stop them: "Perhaps you could come with me. It'll be boring there, you'd go mad, but - I don't know, we could live together there, bugger the lot of them. If-"

Sherlock's fingers tightened on his arm. "You'd want me to come?" His voice rumbled against  
Greg's chest.

"Sherlock - of course I would. Don't you know that? I love you."

"You never said...I'd...hoped."

Greg felt his heart clench. "I love you. Of course I do."

"Oh."

"_Sherlock_," breathed Greg. All this time? He hadn't _known?_

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his heart and his fingers curled around Greg's. "I'll come, then," he said. He squeezed Greg's hand. "I...The feeling is mutual."

And Greg found he could breathe again and he kissed Sherlock's hair, his forehead until the other man lifted his face and he could kiss his lips too. Oddly shaped blue eyes looked into his, fathomless and wondering, and Greg looked back and then with a laugh rolled Sherlock over onto his back, kissing him again, feeling all at once light and happy. He heard Sherlock chuckle, felt his smile against his lips and with a huff of laughter he smiled back.

A shadow passed across Greg's happiness. "What about John? You won't mind leaving him behind?"

Sherlock stilled, a frown on his brow as he searched Greg's face. "You still- " he drew an impatient breath. "Detective Inspector, a reasonably intelligent man once told me I'd move on and find someone else," he murmured. "I did, a long time ago. John's my friend, you are my lover."

Greg felt a sudden heat in his chest. "Ah."

"You thought I was still in pining over him? All this time?" He glared at Greg.

Greg smiled ruefully and felt a blush threatening. "Well. You can't talk. Ten whole years and you never realised that I'm stupidly, madly in love with you?"

Sherlock huffed a breath. "I didn't trust my own judgement on the matter." He mouthed at Greg's collarbone and made him shiver. "My inherent bias was guaranteed to skew the data."

"And you expect me to be any different. You're the bloody genius here." Greg shifted and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's. "I love you, you mad bastard. All right?"

A slow smile crept across Sherlock's face and he looked pleased. "I love you too, even if you can be positively dim." And he pulled Greg down into a slow, tender kiss. He drew back suddenly. "How do you feel about apiculture?" he asked.

* * *

**Eleven years later - March**

Mary kissed John once more and straightened his coat as they waited on the platform. "Now, call me when you arrive."

"I will. Tell the kids I'll call them to say goodnight."

"I will. Have fun; don't get shot or arrested."

"I won't. It will be good to see them again, make sure Sherlock hasn't driven Greg mad yet with his bees. God. Sherlock keeping bees."

She smiled. "Bring some honey back, would you?"

"I will." John considered this and added. "Maybe; I'll test it first."

"Well, be good. I'll see you next week."

"Yes. Love you." He kissed his wife again.

"Love you too. Enjoy."

John waved one last time and stepped into the train. There was a knot of excitement in his gut and couldn't stop the stupid grin that seemed to have taken over his face. It had been too long since he'd seen Sherlock.

He opened his case and checked that the present he was bringing was there. _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, the book he'd spent the last three years compiling based on his blog and Sherlock's case notes. He had finally received the pre-release copy. He hoped Sherlock appreciated it in the spirit it was intended, no matter how critical he was sure to be about John's prose.

He shut his case and sat back in his seat, willing the journey to be over already. God, he'd missed Sherlock this last year. The texts and emails had helped, but it wasn't the same as trailing along after the brilliant, erratic genius. Now he had a whole week to spend with the impossible git.

Greg would be there too, of course, but that was okay. The part of John that was grateful to the man had come to far outweigh the part that was jealous. He couldn't be resentful of the lover who'd taken care of Sherlock when he couldn't.

He was happy with the choices he'd made. He loved Mary more every day. Loved their children. He didn't regret anything, but sometimes...well, sometimes he was wistful.

He took out his mobile and tapped a message.

_Leaving now. See you in two hours. John _

The reply came almost immediately.

_Bring milk. Local shop. Meet Greg at police station. - SH_

John chuckled and put the phone away, very much looking forward to seeing Sherlock Holmes' version of domestic bliss.

End.


End file.
